Nightmares
by katydidit
Summary: Set right after season one. My sister used to have nightmares, bad ones, and, when she did, the same thing always happened. A small voice would wake me up, and I would see her slight figure standing hesitantly in my doorway.


AN: Another Dexter story, this one based more off of a strange plotbunny that stuck itself in my head and wouldn't go away. I know that this Dexter isn't fully in-character, but...I tried. I just can't find a way to make him be in character and get this story to work properly. Maybe that's a sign that I shouldn't have written it, but if people really dislike it, I can always use that handy little "delete" button, right? :)

My sister used to have nightmares, bad ones, and, when she did, the same thing always happened. A small voice would wake me up, and I would see her slight figure standing hesitantly in my doorway. She would ask, in an uncharacteristically wavering voice, if she could sleep in my bed, just this one night. There was always a different excuse: she saw someone at her window, or she heard a rat in the wall, or something.

I don't remember exactly when it first started happening, but I remember that first night perfectly. Deb stood in my doorway, all long legs and tousled hair and a stark white bed sheet wrapped around her shoulders. Her eyes were red and her face was flushed: I thought she'd been crying. But her cheeks were dry, I realized, as she approached the bed. I wanted to say no, to kick her out of my room and send her back to her own bed, but Harry had just explained to me a few days before that I was a big brother now, and I was expected to protect my sister, keep her as safe as I could. Mostly his speech had been another reminder that I was not to breathe a word to her about our training sessions. As if I would. But still his words stuck with me, for whatever reason, and wordlessly, I moved over. I saw a strange expression flit across her face: gratitude, relief, as though I had rescued her from some psychopath hiding in her closet. The irony was not lost on me, even at the time.

Since then, there had been a few nights where she would reappear, but not as many as when we were younger. Though they were innocent and not in the slightest way inappropriate, we made every effort to keep these nights hidden from Harry and Mom: I knew there would be objections, worried conversations between the adults in the still darkness of nighttime. But then we got older, grew into our adult bodies, and I guess Deb found another way to keep her imagined monsters away.

Until one caught up with her, kidnapped her, and nearly killed her, I guess. Deb doesn't sleep in an empty house, and I'm beginning to realize that she doesn't like sleeping in an empty room, either. Sometimes I'll get up in the middle of the night when it's my turn to sleep in the bed, and I'll hear the television going. It bothers me that she isn't sleeping. It bothers me even more that it was my own brother who did this to her.

I don't sleep much lately, either.

And that's why I'm more surprised than startled the night that my sister reappears in my doorway, wrapped in the old afghan from my couch. I sit up immediately, as she moves closer. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes red, and those nights from our childhood come rushing back to me all at once. She seems embarrassed, and she lowers her eyes (where has my sister gone?) as those familiar words spill from her lips. She makes some crack about cockroaches in my kitchen, about how she can hear them scratching around, but it's in vain. I keep my apartment cleaner than that. Still, I move over, lift the covers to allow her to slip beneath them. Her body soon warms the sheets next to me.

I lay in bed for the next few hours, stiff and unsure. She has long since drifted off, apparently more comfortable in the presence of a serial killer than alone, but I'm finding it next to impossible to sleep. At some point in the night, she makes a small, strangled sort of noise, and turns onto her side, burying her face in my chest. This should have complicated things, made me even more uncomfortable, but somehow this actually breaks the tension that only I feel. I can feel myself relaxing, and I slip one arm around my bony little sister. When she's awake, she's even more fierce than usual, all spitfire and defense and power, trying to convince everyone, or maybe just herself, that she's really okay. It's when she's asleep that all of that falls away and it's like she's seven years old again.

She used my shampoo again, I realize, as the smell makes its way up to my nose. I ponder the benefits of buying in bulk, but shake the thought away. It's a small apartment, with an even smaller bathroom: where would I store a gallon of shampoo? Ah well. I'll just buy my regular size tomorrow. I press my nose to the top of her head. This is a strange position for me to be in, even with Rita, let alone with my own sister. But she needs me. She needs me, so I'm here. I press my hand against the small of her back, and feel...something, a weight sitting in my chest, or my stomach. It doesn't quite feel like anger: maybe more like possessiveness or protectiveness.

Just a few short weeks ago, she was probably sleeping like this with my brother. He was exploring her body with his hands, his tongue, his lips, learning every inch of her body, just so he could slice her up later. I don't realize it until I feel her shift slightly, but I have tightened my grip on her. This is certainly not jealousy, not in a hundred years. Because that's really, really weird.

I guess I fell asleep, holding my sister tightly against my body, with my nose buried in her hair, because the next thing I know, she's stirring against me, rising from her sleep, and shifting as she realizes that maybe this is a strange position to be in with one's own brother. I open my own eyes and meet hers. She looks unsure, maybe ashamed? But what does she have to be ashamed of? It's not her fault she has these nightmares, and it's not as though I'm going to be ratting her out any time soon. I sit up as well, and reach out to smooth down one side of her hair before I realize that's sort of weird.

"You want breakfast?" I ask. "I'm not going into work until later...I can make pancakes while you shower, if you want."

She's going to say no: I see it in her eyes. I'm beginning to realize that Deb has a code of her own, one that mostly consists of taking care of herself, not letting other people see her weaknesses. But ever since That Night, I've noticed little differences in her personality. She wavers for several moments, before lowering her eyes and finally agreeing. She nods as she hurries out of bed, clearly anxious to get away from this whole situation. Quite frankly, I can't blame her.

I wait until Deb is out of the room and safely in the bathroom, showering, before venturing out of bed. Morning wood, the bane of men everywhere, apparently does not discriminate against serial killers trying to keep their little sisters safe at night. This could have been an even more awkward situation. I look down at...myself and let out a groan, before stepping into a pair of jeans and heading toward the kitchen to start the pancakes.


End file.
